Fractured
by Starlight05
Summary: John's nightmares return with a vengeance, and Sherlock can't help but be worried. But what will happen when his concern ends up backfiring on him? And will John forgive himself?


**Hey everyone! Just a short story, even though I know I should be updating Riddles in the Dark. I will soon, I ****_swear_****! Anyway, I quite like how this ended up, and I hope you do as well! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

Fractured

oOOOo

It wasn't long after the case with the bombs and Moriarty that John's nightmares returned. Sherlock, who often woke up early or stayed up through the night, could sometimes hear John crying out. He would pause in what he was doing and listen, waiting until the doctor quieted. Sometimes he went up the stairs to John's room to make sure he didn't hurt himself, but he never dared to enter.

Once or twice, he pulled out his violin and played one of John's favorite songs, smiling when he heard the nightmare end much more quickly than usual.

While Sherlock was gone after he'd faked his death, he couldn't help but worry about John. Was he still having the nightmares? What if he hurt himself during them? Sherlock wasn't there to check on his blogger, but at night he often wondered how his was doing.

After he returned, Sherlock stayed up late on purpose most nights, determined to make sure John was alright.

One night, six months after he had come back, he had a nightmare again. He had been experiencing them sporadically the past few months, but this one sounded especially bad to Sherlock.

So the detective stood and headed cautiously up the stairs, peering around the door to look in. John was thrashing around, moaning.

"No," he muttered, clearly trying to fight someone off.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, worried at how frightened he sounded. "John, it's okay."

But then John gave a loud yell, making Sherlock jump. John's hand grabbed at his left shoulder and he gave a kind of whimper. "Please God, let me live," he said, so quietly Sherlock almost missed it.

"John," he implored, stepping to the bedside. "It's alright. It's just a nightmare. John, it's okay. You're safe, you're at home."

He hesitated, seeing John was clearly nowhere near consciousness, but not knowing what to do. He reached out and grasped John's hand, trying to bring John back to reality.

But John, still deep in the dream and in soldier mode, felt the hand in his and reacted. He twisted, and Sherlock gasped in pain as his wrist broke with a sickening crack. He stumbled backwards and slumped down on the floor, cradling his wrist.

He stayed there, frozen by shock, even as he heard John wake up finally, but didn't dare to move. Maybe John would go back to sleep and Sherlock could sneak downstairs to tend to this. In the morning he could say he tripped down the stairs of the flat. John would never have to know the truth.

No such luck, of course.

"Sherlock?" John said, having spotted him on the floor.

He didn't reply, still shaken from the unexpected attack and pain. It was only when John sat up and turned on the light that he looked over at the army doctor.

"That was a bad nightmare this time," he supplied weakly, trying to hold his wrist in a way that seemed natural. That's hard, however, when the wrist in question is bent at a very unnatural angle.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Why are you holding your arm like that?"

"It's nothing, John," Sherlock replied, scooting away as John slid out of bed and made his way toward Sherlock. "I fell coming to check on you."

But it was no use lying to an army doctor. John's eyes focused on Sherlock's wrist, analyzing. He looked back up.

"That sort of fracture," he said, his voice quiet. "It only happens if the wrist is twisted..."

He froze. "Did I... Oh God, Sherlock did I do that?"

Sherlock stood up and started for the stairs. "It's not that bad," he lied. "I'll be alright."

"Sherlock, answer me!" John sounded distraught, desperate. "Did I do that?"

"Goodnight, John."

"Sherlock wait-"

"I said goodnight!"

And Sherlock flew down the stairs, hating the hurt and guilt in his friend's voice. He grabbed the first aid kit in the bathroom and darted into his bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. He took a shuddering breath, pulling his injured wrist close to his chest.

He heard John come down the stairs and pause at his doorway, probably listening. Sherlock ignored him and set about making a temporary splint to last the night until he could go to the hospital. Because, though he didn't like much to admit it, even he couldn't properly treat this. And he would never allow John to do it, wouldn't even let him come near it.

It wasn't that he was angry at John, never that; it wasn't even John's fault! No, it was just that he had never dreamed he would be hurt for trying to do something good. And now John was upset, and Sherlock never knew what to do when John was upset...

He sighed, finishing off the splint. He lay down and forced his eyes closed, knowing tomorrow he could sneak out and fix this.

oOOOo

John stood outside Sherlock's room for a moment, horrified by what he had done. And Sherlock seemed so hurt and angry... He had never run away and slammed the door on John like that before, not with such frustration and fury!

Eventually, John figured that there would be no talking to Sherlock that night, so he headed up to bed. He lay there for hours, but sleep didn't come. All he could see when he shut his eyes was Sherlock cradling his wrist, his expression full of pain.

oOOOo

Sherlock lay there for several hours, not sleeping, just thinking. It hadn't been John's fault this had happened, but he knew the doctor would blame himself. What if he thought Sherlock was angry at him? Well, then he'd be an idiot. But the insult was half-hearted, even in his mind. He was too worried about John.

When he glanced at the clock it said it was nearly sunrise, so he rose and dressed, fumbling with his broken wrist but eventually getting it done. He slipped out of the flat as silently as he could, only pausing to grab his usual scarf and coat before he left.

He took a cab to Bart's and went straight into the emergency room. He had to wait through several patients ahead of him, all injuries of stupidity or silly illnesses that were easy to avoid if one was even moderately intelligent. Finally, he was called back and treated. The doctors and nurses there were familiar with the consulting detective, used to him coming in with injuries from cases, so they didn't question this.

After getting a few pain pills just for the day and a hard plastic cast, they let him go, telling him to come back in in two weeks. The fracture was not as serious as it could have been, but it was still severe. As a result, Sherlock would have to deal with the irritating cast for about six weeks. He made a vow, however, on the cab ride home, to not complain about it at all. He knew that if he did, John would feel even more guilty that he probably already did. When the cab got to 221B, he climbed out, getting money to the cabbie with only a slight bit of difficulty, then rushing out and entering the flat.

He hurried up the stairs and strode into the sitting room, pulling off his coat awkwardly. John came into the room and looked at Sherlock, guilt and sadness in his eyes. It looked as though he hadn't slept since the incident either.

"I thought you'd gone," John said quietly.

"Well, I had," Sherlock replied, hesitant to talk about this as it was clearly still hurting John.

"To the hospital?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said, gesturing with his good hand to the cast on his arm.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Leave it, John," Sherlock said quietly, flopping down in his chair and checking his phone for texts.

"But Sherlock-"

"No."

"Why don't you want to talk about this?"

Sherlock looked up, uncertain. If talking about this hurt John...

Apparently his feelings registered on his face, for John sighed and dropped onto the sofa. "Sherlock, I could have killed you," he whispered, as if hoping that would make everything clear.

Sherlock scoffed, but was inwardly thrown by the unexpected comment. "That's ridiculous."

"No, it's not, and that's what worries me!" John snapped. "I have a gun, Sherlock, right near my bed, and if you come too close I could hurt you even worse than breaking your wrist! And do you know how I would feel if I were to-"

He paused, swallowing. Sherlock waited silently, trying and failing to deduce anything really useful about John at the moment.

"Look," John continued, a harder edge to his voice now. "Next time I have a nightmare, no matter how bad it sounds, don't come in. I'll be alright, just leave it. Don't try to help me. I don't want to risk you getting hurt again."

Sherlock stood abruptly and went straight for the kitchen. John let him go, sitting perfectly still, his face buried in his hands, listening to the sounds of Sherlock making tea. Soon the detective returned, giving John the cup.

"You think fear of getting hurt is going to stop me?" he asked, sitting next to John. "I live for danger, John, you know that. Just because you could hurt me, which, by the way, I've known since you moved in, isn't going to stop me. If you need me, whether you want to admit it or not, I'll come. I don't care about the gun or my wrist or possible scenarios."

John looked up, his blue eyes still full of pain. "I can't let you get hurt."

"And I don't want to see you afraid, even if we both know it's just a nightmare and will be over when you wake up. Just hide the gun across the room, John, because I'm not going anywhere. I told you already; I'd be lost without my blogger."

John smiled gratefully at him, and Sherlock knew it would be alright now. He looked at his blogger fondly as John reached out and touched the cast gently. A look of guilt passed over his eyes, but it was quickly dispelled as he seemed to remember that Sherlock wasn't angry.

"Can I sign your cast?" he asked with a small smile, one that showed the old sparkle Sherlock was used to seeing in John's eyes.

Sherlock grinned back. "Of course. I just hope Anderson doesn't want to; I'm not letting him get that close to me!"

John laughed.

Eventually, when Sherlock's wrist was healed and the cast removed, it was added to the shelves of the flat, an amusing anecdotal symbol, now covered in signatures, except Anderson's of course. Even John could joke about the incident.

And when he had nightmares, Sherlock made sure he was right there next to him.

The End.

**Please review and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!**


End file.
